


Crucifix Kiss

by vtn



Category: Green Day, Music RPF
Genre: M/M, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-30
Updated: 2006-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billie Joe, John, a bed of nails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crucifix Kiss

“I’m guessing you haven’t been here before,” said John, sliding a casual hand along the brass handle of the door and pushing it open. “After you.” Billie sighed and entered, ducking his head to get under John’s arm and ruffling his hair in the process.

“Am I always going to be the woman?” he asked as he combed his fingers through the misplaced strands of hair. “And no, I haven’t been here before. I generally have better things to do than museum-hop.” He stuck his tongue out a tiny bit at John, who rolled his eyes in response. John entered the museum lobby and let the door swing shut behind him. It closed a few inches from a business-suited man, which made Billie laugh. There was still something to sticking it to the man.

“Better things like what? Jerk off in your room all day?” John teased Billie, giving him a nudge in the ribs and walking over to take his place in line for the desk. Billie joined him, indignant.

“As a matter of fact, I was talking about, you know, mini-golfing with the kids, going out to lunch with Adrienne, writing music, hanging out with Mike and Tré—usual band-frontman-who’s-also-a-dad stuff.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a standard.”

“Feh.”

“How are the wife and kids, anyway? It’s been a while. Adie know we’re out here?” Billie almost choked on his laugh.

“Of _course_ she knows! That woman is very well aware of everything I do and everyone I go on museum dates with, thank you very much. She liked the movie, by the way. Joey wants to see it too, but, you know. When he’s older.” John faked a gasp.

“When he’s _older_? Why, who knows what other influences will have gotten to him by the time he’s older! He has to see my movie _now_. When he’s still young and impressionable.  _It will change his life_.” John struck a rather self-indulgent pose, chin facing the ceiling. He swept his hand up in an almost arabesque.

“Watch it with the limp wrist and the posturing, Roecker. People are going to think you’re, you know, one of those gay directors from San Francisco.” Billie gave him a playful shove.

“You’re right. They will,” said John, and the two of them stepped up to the desk.

“Two,” they said in unison, and then both spent about a minute disentangling themselves from the “I’m paying”s and the “don’t you worry about it, I can afford it”s. They agreed to each buy their own ticket, and left the receptionist clicking her tongue and shaking her head.

“What do you think she’s thinking?” said Billie as the two of them walked down the hallway. He cocked his head at John and gave him a quick wink. 

“Fags,” said John at the same time as Billie gave the same answer to his own question. “California’s full of fags and deviants,” John continued.

“Oh, not quite full yet.” Billie raised a finger. “But by the time you’re done with it, it will be. I mean, Motley Crue would go homo for you.”

“I’m flattered, but if you really thought that you’d have had sex with me by now.”

“To everything, turn, turn, turn, there is a season, turn, turn, turn,” Billie quoted, closing his eyes and doing that voice that people always did when they quoted. Of course, most people preferred quoting the Bible, Thoreau, or civil rights heroes over The Byrds, but Billie wasn’t picky. 

“All right, well _turn_ right at the end of this hallway for the modern art exhibit. That is where we’re headed after all.” Billie suddenly felt John’s hand patting his ass, and he squeaked. Then John was behind him, giving him little shoves toward the exhibit.

“I _swear_ , John, it’s like there was something you particularly wanted me to see; either that or you’re just trying to…” He turned around and gave John the hairy eyeball. 

“Trying to what?”

“ _Trying to tell the whole of Berkeley that you’ve got a claim on Billie Joe Armstrong_. Aren’t you.” Billie scoffed, hands on hips, and turned. 

The room was fairly simple. Vaguely gray carpet, off-white walls, red fire alarm in the corner. Various works were scattered around it, and at the opposite wall there was an entrance into another such room. John pranced through like a little kid, stopping to admire what looked to Billie like a plush rabbit inside of a bloody balloon. He wasn’t sure he particularly wanted to know. He asked anyway.

“What the fuck is this shit?” (Billie Joe Armstrong, it must be noted, was never one for subtlety.) 

“I’m thinking it’s either a Biblical allusion or a bored college kid trying to get something passed _off_ as a Biblical allusion. Or a political statement. You know the type.” Billie nodded, figuring he _really_ didn’t know the Bible if that was a Biblical allusion. Then something distracted him.

“John, are those boobs on a dinner plate?”

“I would be inclined to say, Billie Joe, that they are indeed boobs on a dinner plate. As you will.” John peered around the corner into the next room, and to Billie’s dismay, a light flared up in his eyes. Billie always got worried when John had that look on his face.

“What…”

“Come.”

John grabbed Billie’s hand and Billie, despite protests, found himself dragged across the floor into the next room over. You know how in cartoons, sometimes one character drags another, and the second one stays slightly tilted as his feet scrape along the floor? Yeah. Like that.

“Nails,” said John. 

That was pretty much the first word that came to Billie’s mind, as well. The display they were looking at consisted of a mattress on the floor. The mattress was completely uninteresting other than the fact that it had foot-long nails poking out of it from all over. 

John’s hands slid around Billie’s waist, and for varying reasons, Billie did not complain when John whispered, “I want to fuck you into that bed of nails.”

A shiver went through Billie, and he pushed John’s arms off him. 

“No, absolutely not, no.” But then he turned around, twisting his expression into a wicked smile. “But…do you have any nails at your place? Well?” He looked around, finding no one watching, and gave John’s crotch a quick squeeze.  _Heh, he’s hard. Figures_.

John gulped, then, and lowered his head, looking up through the tops of slitted eyes at Billie. Now it was Billie’s turn to swallow and lick his lips.

“Car, now,” said John. They were soon walking out the door.

“Damned nails. Damned modern art,” Billie said under his breath.

 

 In the car, they made small talk as Billie fumbled with his shirt. 

John: “Your wife.”

“My wife knows everything.” It wasn’t a lie, either. In fact—and he felt his cheeks flush at the thought—Adie had given him a knowing smile and a slap on the ass on his way out the door. Right before that, she had informed him that John Roecker had been wanting to jump his bones for years. 

Damned Adie and damned open relationships. Despite the fact that yes, he _had_ mostly started it and no, he wasn’t turning back around for all the world, he still didn’t particularly enjoy trying to hide an erection on the highway, especially not with one foot on the dashboard (a habit; he couldn’t stop if he tried).

  


_Especially_ especially not with John’s hand running slowly back and forth along his thigh. Damn it all.

“Patience!” he shouted finally, forcefully putting his leg down on the floor. John removed his hand, face pouty. “What? John, you’re going to run us into a ditch if you don’t concentrate on the goddamn road.”

“‘Patience,’ he said. Patience. And he’s sitting here with a big old hard-on, just waiting for me to take care of it with _these_ nails…” He wiggled his fingers, and Billie, damn it all once again, shivered. 

“Asshole. Get us to your fucking house right now.” Billie enunciated each word carefully, giving them all of the calculated emphasis that was necessary for John to know that, trust him, he was at the very end of his rope as far as patience went, but he also didn’t, you know, want to end up tangled in the flaming wreckage of what could have once been John’s car if you squinted and turned your head at a funny angle.

He decided perhaps the first statement wasn’t enough, and told John all of that.

 

There was a pause then, which encompassed as much driving as was required to park the (non-flaming, non-wrecked) car in John’s driveway. Then John responded.

“When I’m finished with you, Billie Joe Armstrong, _your_ flaming wreckage will be hardly recognizable.”

 

Another pause—imagine a jump cut if you will; Roecker is a director after all, and it _is_ his house we’re in—bringing them up to John’s bedroom: a small affair, with movie posters stapled onto the walls, shelves full of knickknacks, and a mattress on box springs in the center of the room. Billie glanced at the single window. Its curtain was already drawn. Then he responded. 

“Not so flaming as yours, nor as wrecked.”

 

Jump cut now to Billie lying on the mattress, John propped up on knees and elbows over him, one leg on either side of Billie’s waist. A box of nails in his hand. 

“Perhaps I’m the more flaming, but you’ll feel like fire.”

 

Jump cut again. Billie lay on his back, shirt off. John knelt between Billie’s legs, nails between his fingers like Wolverine, scratching three red trails down Billie’s bare back. Billie buried his face in the pillow to avoid moans—the only response he could manage at that point.

“No, no.” John caressed Billie’s face with his other hand. “I want to hear you.”

“Damn you,” Billie tried to say, but it came out in a sound that was in no way like ‘damn you’ at all. 

“Mhmm, I’m sure,” John said as he continued his massage on Billie’s back. 

“Fuck me,” said Billie. 

John obliged.

 

Billie nailed obscenities into John’s hands and feet as he came. 

 

“Crucifixion;” so ended the barrage.

“Stigmata.” John shivered against Billie, and Billie wrapped a hand around John’s cock, fingernails digging in; John’s release hot against his fingers.

 

  


_Plink, plink_.

“You know, you should really consider getting this place carpeted.”

“You like rug burns?”

“I could learn to like them.”

“What about your wife?”

“She could help teach me.”

“I’m gay.”

“You don’t know my wife well, then, cocksucker.”

“I haven’t sucked your cock just yet.”

“Well, when do you want to start?”

“Any time.”

“Okay, how about n— _oh_.”

**Author's Note:**

> AMS  
> May 27, 2006
> 
> Title lovingly borrowed from the Manic Street Preachers. _Fall in love - fall in love with me - nail a crucifix down to my soul._


End file.
